


On Skinned Knees

by spacemonkey



Category: U2
Genre: Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-05
Updated: 2016-06-05
Packaged: 2018-07-12 11:17:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7100953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacemonkey/pseuds/spacemonkey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was going to be alright, Bono had said, and at least Edge had that to hold on to, if nothing else. Set in 1990</p>
            </blockquote>





	On Skinned Knees

**Author's Note:**

> Well, I didn't set out to write this today, but it happened anyway. Oops. The title comes from Confusion by Alice in Chains, and the title and the last line was all I had in mind when I started writing this. It's strange, how things come about. Set directly after Edge's marriage break up and during the Berlin recording. It's a bit... heavy, and I wasn't exactly sure how to tag it other than ANGST (and if anyone has any suggestions, I'd love to hear them) but I hope you enjoy until I can return back to lovely French cottages. ..

He had been whiskey warm in front of the fire, a bleeding heart desperate for a smile.

Holding a trembling hand, he’d said, “Everything is going to be alright, Edge.” It had been a lie, it had to have been, but Bono had said it with such conviction that Edge had believed him, if only for a night. His hold had stayed steady, and Edge had struggled to let go.

There had been a shaky smile, the taste of Jameson, and in the morning, an empty bed still warm to the touch. It was going to be alright, Bono had said. Edge had that to hold on to, if nothing else. He had to believe it.

With Bono, sometimes it was like trying to piece together a puzzle only to find all the edges missing. You could continue on, you could tuck it away and pretend, but to look at the puzzle head on was to see the truth. Edge knew, no matter what Bono did to hide it. He _knew_ , and he knew it wasn’t fair on Bono. It always came to him in the dark, as he listened to the steady breath at his side; tomorrow, tomorrow he would make the right choice.

There was always tomorrow, and sometimes it was all he had.

It had been vodka tonic on a cold night in Berlin, and Bono had been huddled under the covers, asking, “It’s going to be alright, isn’t it, Edge?” He’d never worn doubt well, and Edge had chosen his words carefully, just to see the change of face. _Yes, of course, don’t worry._ It might have been a lie. _Don’t worry, it’s alright_.

He’d just needed to see a smile.

There were only two possible outcomes that he could ever think of; two things that kept him hanging on. Two days straight spent at the studio, frantic, _frantic._ Two syllables leaving his lips as he'd been guided to the door, a steady hand on his back.

It might have been a lie.

He had been windswept in a darkened alley, a bleeding heart desperate to keep a steady grasp. He’d laughed in the street, warmed cool skin with a suggestive whisper in the elevator, and inside, it had been red wine on curved lips, and just one word, again and again.

_Edge, Edge . . ._

There were buttons Edge had learned to push, pressure points that brought out a moan; a smile; a reaching hand. There were patterns in the way Bono conducted his life, predictable in all the ways he wished he weren’t. Edge couldn’t help but file it all away, all those little idiosyncrasies that made Bono who he was, and more, so much more.

To meet in the middle, frantic, _frantic_ , was to find himself alone the next morning, with cooling sheets and a choice to be made. To say no to Bono was to start a hunt, relentless and brief until he could coax out the _yes_ that had been there all along.

To pursue was something else entirely; dark hair pooled against a white pillow, parted lips caught in a cry, and fingernails digging in deep as Edge went slow, slowly into the night. Those were the nights Edge liked best, the times the guilt could slip away into something manageable, something that wasn’t quite so fractured. And the morning after, watching and waiting until he was greeted by a sleepy smile that told him that, yes, they could make it through.

It was going to be alright, Bono had said, and it was easy to believe that so far from home. It was easy to believe that even when there was no home to return to, when all the complexities he’d created in life narrowed down into two fixed points, steady, _steady_.

It was easy to pretend.

He was quiet by the window, a bleeding heart desperate for a better view. It was always grey; in the skies above or on the building next to theirs, and spilling through the bedroom at a time so early that sometimes being awake felt like a crime, sometimes not. “It’ll be nice to see some green,” he said quietly, and he turned his head before Edge could catch him head on. His hand shook against Edge’s grasp, but his smile was steady -  _knowing -_  when he glanced back, and Edge knew. It wasn’t fair on Bono.

It had never been fair.

It came to him in the dark, as he listened to the steady breath at his side; tomorrow, tomorrow he would make the right choice. Tomorrow, while he still could. He had to, he _knew_ he had to, because, because . . .


End file.
